I wanna come down and walk around your mind.

Aha. So the ridiculousness of the sister's Friday night basketball reached new levels recently when they found out that next week's game is at a holiday town. That's right, somewhere people often vacation at because it's far enough out of the city to be a novelty is the location of an early evening basketball game. Can you hear all the working parents saying "yay"? I love the optimism of my cousin's wife when Mother said "So next week we're going to Corio Bay...": "Oh, are you going on holiday?!" Just thought I'd start the post with that because I'm the only member of the family not into the basketball thing so I am laughing- perhaps a little harder than I should be- at the misfortune of my kin.

I feel I should finish some of my afore-posted-about stories of birthdays and pain. Very separate topics, mind, which is a nice change considering my experiences of previous years. So we had the "family" birthday gathering last Sunday (the prophecy predicted I would meet my doom on Monday so it doubled as a "take a good look at her now" sort of deal) which was nice and heartwarming and all that. Babies were everywhere, as were gorgeous presents (among my favourites: a vegan cookbook, a JB voucher- they seem to be my kryptonite- and a ring from a makeshift Aunt that she bought for herself when she was newly 18).

And then there was surgery. Can I state for the record that I hate general anaesthetic? My reasons are many. The first: I don't cope well when I'm not allowed to eat. The second: I cope worse when I'm not allowed to drink. A mug is basically an extension of my arm when I'm home but I spent all of Monday morning lying in bed watching DVDs, terrified to get up because I knew I'd absentmindedly make myself a cup of tea. The third: the anaesthetist was so casual about the amount of things he was sticking in my arm. I wasn't sure if I was being executed, getting high or being put to sleep because he was so bloody neutral about it all. The fourth: I woke up someone who was fascinated by my IV. The nurses just sort of smirked knowingly at me while I rediscovered my inner stoner. Oh, and now, a week later (though this is probably due to my likely current state of iron deficiency) I still have track mark. Singular. Yep. Hannah = worst junkie ever.

I will say for this whole experience, though, that Mother is a Goddess. Sometimes I would have trudged out to the kitchen to take painkillers and she would see the grimace that was practically painted on my face: "Do you want to come and sit with me for a little while?" "...yes." I guess the comfort of your Mum's hugs never really wears off. And on Tuesday when I was absolutely starving and hadn't been able to eat anything not bearing a striking resemblance to gruel, I held out a recipe book open at the page for potato and leek soup and she just said "okay". And damn, if it weren't the best potato and leek soup I ever ate. Last night we sat and watched an old musical on DVD together. What's funny is that we never would have done it if I hadn't been so debilitated, and Alice hadn't been out, and Michelle wasn't too tired to do anything else, and basketball hadn't been on hiatus etc. etc. But we both agreed it was the best Friday night we'd had in a while.

I'm liking this post thus far. Someone said recently that they couldn't keep a blog because their life was so boring and they wouldn't know what to write about. But I guess I like having a blog, and knowing at least one person is reading, because it's encouragement to look at your life creatively and try to find positive aspects of it. I mean, it would be arrogant to assume my life is so very interesting that you should take time out of your own to read about it. But you do, for whatever reason, and I suppose for my own sake and yours I try to edit my experiences into something pleasant to read about. And, really, life is quite pleasant. So wewt for blogging, for the perspective it gives me, and for my inflated sense of self importance that inspires me to write such fluff.








Um, my legs hurt as they normally would the day or so after exercise. Having been basically bedridden for a week, I say "huh?"





EDIT


Heard:


"I'm a little vegetarian."- Erin (one of the wee bonnie lasses I call "cousin").

And you're not invited.

So I'm trying to study for Democracy exam (entails 3 essays over 2 hours and counts for 50% of my grade. Are you as flustered by all those numbers as I am? Good.) and I'm sort of thrown by the sudden disappearance of the wankerous vocabulary I've come to rely on. Exhibit A: a sample from the essay I wrote earlier in the semester; "The Charter's internal sexism and external reliance on representation could not negate its significance as a document capable of revealing democracy's susceptibility, as a concept and a reality, to evolution." Exhibit B: someone's annotation on my Creative Writing draft after workshopping "...I know you like using big words but would [insert character's name]?" So where the hell are my freakin' big words, I ask you?! I hope I come up with something better tomorrow.

I've been living off the baked goods I made for the party on Saturday so at the moment I'm on my third cookie of the day. Don't even get started on cake, birthday or cup. It's a sickness, really. But I'll be baking some more next Saturday on account of the "family" Birthday gathering my mother wants to have which, I must admit, I am rather tickled by for a number of reasons:

1)I've always been a bit unimpressed by the concept of cousins. You know, people talking about/hanging with/abiding their cousins. It all just seemed odd to me because my father's side of the family kind of didn't exist to me for most of my life and my mother's family, while nice, are very different to us strange, complex, liberal city slickers. But, of late, we've been doing the whole solving-issues-with-estranged-relatives thing and one of the casualties of this process have been my cousin Bernie and his family. He has a semi-vego wife who is nice about my cooking, a nine year old daughter who likes to talk to me about school and a four(ish) year old daughter who draws me pictures. Oh, and Bernie himself is uber nice and charming. What's not to love? So yeah, I find myself enthusiastically uttering phrases that used to make my skin crawl like "My cousins are coming over!", "My cousins called to wish me a Happy Birthday!" etc. Needless to say, the new favourite relatives are coming over next Sunday to celebrate my newfound old age.

2) I'm getting my wisdom teeth out the next day. So the little shindig doubles as an "in-case-you-don't-wake-up-from-the-general-anaesthetic"/"good-luck-with-the-whole-eating-old-people-food-for-a-week" party.

3) I am actually really sick of baking right now. It was sort of a marathon measure-whisk-pour-cook fest last week. But nobody in my house can really cook like I can (I know, don't you love the exaggerated sense of self importance?) and I abhor most things store-bought. So I'ma bake some cupcakes for the littleys and scones for ... everyone else.

I better go actually study. Oh, I guess I ought to add this next thing as a new section of le blog.




Heard

"My mother has a problem with my Monday night drinking." - Marlowe.

"It makes me sad when they sweep up the leaves."- Ash.

"Your Dad's really funny."- every young woman I work with *sigh*



'til next time, children.

Beautiful garbage, beautiful dresses.

So I'm 18. And technically have been for around 24 hours now. I was born at 11:30am on the dot (caesarean sections are all about the punctuality). It is currently 11:44am. I feel basically the same.

Here's a breakdown of yesterday. Woke up at 10, made lamington muffins while I should have been eating breakfast and just cooked like crazy for ages. My family gave me a cheque for enough money to make me blush so I made a work-related joke to my Dad ("you'll have to help me with the banking!" *wink*) which received a poor response. Got everything ready for a couple of hours before being surprised in the act of making the world's worst playlist by guests/helpers arriving. They helped me decorate...okay, they did the decorating and I watched. The party got underway and was lovely, some of my work and Uni friends were a little tentative (Tamaly grabbed my legs until I fell over at one point. I was wearing a mini-skirt and thus was absolutely mortified). But still, t'was good. People drifted in and out until after cake when the remainder of the party headed down to the train station (we were "going out").

No sooner than I had walked away from the bar to sit down than I spilled some of the cocktail on myself. It seemed fitting for my first legal drink to be adorning my coat. We drank for a while, one of our party left us and then we headed off to pretty much the only club we could think of. We paid a thoroughly exorbitant cover fee just so Kat and I could dance (I love that my best friend thinks the same way I do about what we want to do). Marlowe protested ("I don't dance.") but finally agreed so for about an hour we danced to awful techno music in a dark, loud, overcrowded club and it actually felt good (Side note: Marlowe was the cutest dancer). Oh, another highlight was the security guards at both the bar and the club begrudgingly wishing me a happy birthday after checking the date both in their head and out loud while studying my ID card. It seemed like every single girl in le Club was exactly the same person in the same outfit with the same hair and same demeanour. I felt both under and over dressed. In a comical way, I assure you ;)

In summary, my 18th was both under and over whelming in the best possible way. I got home shortly after 1am and saw a wrapped present on my dresser. A small card with it, from my sister said "Happy Birthday Hannah!!! Hope you enjoy your gift and the rest of your life Love, Aly xoxoxoxo". Above this note, hastily scrawled, "I walked into your room to put this in there. I discovered that you already have what I am giving you. I have included the receipt so you can exchange this present for something else that is equally desirable xoxo". Taped to the present was a JB receipt for a Russell Brand DVD that Ash just recently leant me. My heart warmed at that moment, so I hopped into bed to read Maidi's gift (Pride and Prejudice and Zombies) and went to sleep feeling rather smug.






Oh, my Dad's getting counselling. He and my mother talked for a while, he cried and he's agreed to get help. Just thought I'd let you know.

Do I wanna throw away the key?

Rewind my life a day or two. I was so happy. For instance, my Sunday kind of kicked arse.

I woke up around midday. I know, great start. Picked up the newspaper, saw my favourite cinema was showing a preview screening of the Proposal and decided on my plans for the day. One phonecall, a leisurely afternoon breakfast and a train trip later; I met Michelle in the city ready to show her 'round my hood. We stopped in the supermarket to stock up on sugary snacks for the cinema before getting a train to Northcote.

I should take a moment to talk about how great Michelle is. She's a rural student living in the city on a scholarship so she lives in a room off campus the size of my thumbnail and she has back problems to complicate things further. And she is the nicest, most upbeat and easy-going person I have met. She says adorable stuff like "the only thing I don't like about international students is that they leave" and when asked whether she has preferences for dinner she says "I'm open to new flavours". And when I call her at midday on a Sunday asking her to a movie that afternoon (which I prefaced with "it looks deliciously awful") she gets just as excited as I am.

So Michelle and I went to this movie and actually laughed with it, not at it, and got all mushy (as girls tend to) when it's all over and walked down the stairs from the theatre raving about our favourite parts. I took her across the road to get a drink and chat and we covered pretty much everything from school to family to friends. We giggled and chatted at the train station until her train came to take her back to the city. And then, because the train station was dark and quiet and forboding, I started dancing on a bench to Walking on Sunshine.

I had reached dangerously high levels of psychitude. I was ecstatic. Assignments were behind me. My birthday's coming up. I'm young. Woooo!

So writing about this gave me a sort of thought. Let's pretend Monday didn't exist. Ditto Tuesday. All there is: a phenomenal Sunday afternoon.





Oh, amusing moment recollection. When Ryan Reynolds removed his shirt, the cinema was silent until a particularly obnoxious teenage girl in one of the back rows (who was boldened, perhaps too much so, by large amounts of sugar and hype) called "Oh yeah." One clue: it wasn't Michelle.

Like tryin' to tell a stranger 'bout rock'n'roll.

The order in which I do emotions:

1) Experience them.
2) Write about them online.
3) Deal with them.

A very set order these days, it seems.



I would use neutral language and all that except it seems everyone everywhere knows about my life so what are a few online readers?

So let's start at the very beginning. My Dad's been doing property settlements for over thirty years. He's like the Yoda of a very small industry where everyone knows each other. Seriously, it's a very backward and inbred community. I say this with love because I work in the industry too, as of a few months ago, and I'm actually quite fond of it and my job.

The one problem with such an incestuous community, though, is that everyone knows everyone else's business. All the time. My Dad and I didn't go into work due to H1N1 related issues for a week and everyone knew about it despite there being a very boring, non-descript party line about us just taking the week off.

So now you have three clues. I work with him. It's a small industry. And everyone knows everyone's business.

So the next piece of the puzzle is that my Dad likes to drink. To an embarrassing degree. Like, long winded stories and falling over and needing people to help him home and smelling like those aliens from the Simpsons hosed him down with alcohol so no one would believe he was abducted.

People at work like to make jokes to me about said drinking. And about the way my mother guilt trips my Dad about it. And about how he'd rather hit the pub to drink alone for an hour or two than come home with me at night.

Occupational hazard, I guess.

Tonight my father came home drunk again. For the first time this week, granted, but it is only Monday. My mother lost it at him considering she'd only just gotten off work (he finishes at least an hour earlier than she does) and she'd walked the dog, tidied the house and cooked them both dinner. My father, the eloquent speaker he is when he's intoxicated, started repeating the "F" word over and over again as loud as he could, threw his work bag to the side and stormed out of the house, slamming the door and calling "Goodnight" as he left. I presume he went back to the pub, probably to tell his workmates all about it. Or, at least, to infer it with his very subtle body language. I don't know if or when he's coming home this time.

I'm horrified, naturally. But the worst part of all this? Definitely that I'll have to go into work on Friday and there will be more jokes. Or worse, concerned whispers. I was hoping the thing they'd all be talking about is that I'm finally 18 this weekend. But hey, I've figured out that you don't get to choose why you're this week's gossip.